


Debt collection

by Bentoni



Category: Mutant Chronicles (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Detective Noir, Dieselpunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 07:54:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7426483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bentoni/pseuds/Bentoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freelance private Investigator Jasper Paddy is visited by an old friend. Not necessarily a happy reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Debt collection

The pain was excruciating. I didn't know my ribs could hurt like this. The slug had hit my left hand side, a clear shot, straight to the midsection. If I hadn't worn my vest it would have gouged its way into my flesh, right below my left nipple. I’d worn my vest though. Luckily. However, it wasn't fully paid for yet. Not so luckily. The vest was nothing but threads now, ripped to pieces. 

I was already five grand out to Brennan and another four to Vincenzo. This job was supposed to give me 500 Holy Heads but that didn't cover it. Not nearly. I had bills piling so high up the walls in my office that soon it wouldn't matter that the gas company pulled the plug on me; I’d still be warm from the insulation.

I had to stop for a minute, hand on the stone wall. A man said something to me.

“What?” I yelled, way too loud, I knew, but the bang in that close confinement had left a sharp ringing in my ears.

“I said: is there something I can help you with, my son?”

I looked into the face of the man. Barely in his twenties. Reddish hair, freckles on his nose, green eyes brimming with compassion and a troubled, childish look on his face. A missionary, judging by his clothes.

“No, thank you, brother, I think I can manage without any help you can offer”.

Normally I’m friendly towards the little do-gooders from the Third Directorate, not only because I fear the Second Directorate, but because they are the last remnants of humanity that Humanity has. 

I just wasn’t in the mood today.

I tried to smile, but I guess the salty, copper taste in my mouth must’ve have been blood, because the poor bastard frowned and looked a little disgusted.

I moved on, wrapped myself in my heavy coat and tried not to flinch with every step. 

Two Luna P.D. officers studied me as I passed them. I didn’t look at them, afraid that they might pat me down, or worse; recognize me. That would be the last thing I needed.

With my eyes fixed on my feet as I passed them by, my attention fell upon a small red dot on the otherwise black leather of my shoe.

Blood.

My blood? Damned if I knew. Then I realized that the last of them had actually grabbed hold of my coat before I shot him in the gut. I don’t think he was dead when I left the place.

Fumbling in my pocket for the keys I had to clear my throat and blink a few times, because the ringing in my ears made me feel funny. Standing there, I came to the realization that i was grabbing my Piranha handgun. The keys were in my left pocket. I sighed and reached for them but suddenly felt the chill of the evening air to my skin. My pocket was no more, a victim to the slug, same as my bulletproof vest, and my keys were now a case of missing items. Maybe I could dedicate myself to the job?God knows I'd had lots of those jobs. Unfortunately they don’t pay well, and so one resorts to doing jobs that seem just a little too dangerous in order to be a sound business venture. 

My savior arrived in the form of Mrs Thompson on the fourth floor. She hates my guts.  
My friendly smile was met with glare and a face that looked like I was the cause of all the headaches in the world. She let me in, though, and because of that I decided she would be spared the horrible experience of sharing the small space of the elevator with me, and decided, albeit with my battered ribs, to take the stairs.

Five floors was a marathon, every step a highly acclaimed triumph, celebrated by the hoarse wind that was my breath. Sweat made my palms slick and I must confess: I was panting by the time I reached my office.

‘Brown Private Detectives Bureau’ said the sign. I had vowed two years ago that I would change the name, but the spare cash had never materialized.

I opened the door. It wasn’t locked. There was nothing to steal, really, but that didn’t mean I left my door unlocked.

My drill instructor back in basic training taught me that securing a room was always about angles. However my office slash apartment consisted of only one room, small and cramped, so securing simply meant opening the door and pointing the gun straight into the darkness.

My visitor was sitting in my chair, in the dark. The silhouette raised his hands to the air.

I flicked the switch, but the light didn’t come on.

Right. The gas company.

“How do you live like this?” the silhouette asked. A familiar voice, and not very intimidated by my Piranha either.

A sudden flash of light, small but almost blinding, at first, in the thick darkness. The silhouette lit a cigar and at once I knew who the visitor was.

“I can still shoot you, you know. Claim I didn’t recognize you. You’re trespassing, fan Upper.”

fan Upper rose and took a deep puff of the cigar. His eyes gleamed in the shadows. He was eyeing me. 

“Have you checked your mail lately?” he said after a short pause.

“My mail?” 

fan Upper took a side step between my desk and my filing cabinet. He barely squeezed through. Like I said: my office was cramped.

He handed over piece of paper, but offered no explanation of what it was.

“What’s this?” I asked. “Divorce papers? You want me to spy on your soon-to-be ex-wife?”

“No, I don’t care what any of my wives do. Read it.”

I twisted my shoulder to allow the lights from the hall to reach the paper. I saw the red ink first, the words ‘PAYMENT OVERDUE’ second and the amount last. Insurmountable, to say the least. 

Ice down my spine.

“This…” I began but I had to swallow to continue. “I, I sold that car. It’s not mine anymore.”

Why was I explaining this to him?

“No.” said fan Upper and placed himself two inches from me, his cigar trailing smoke all the way up to my face. It was menacing, but on the other hand there was no space to stand further apart.

“You left your car on the side walk during the Second Riots to be torn to pieces. But that does not mean you don’t have to pay for it.”

fan Upper sucked in another puff of his cigar.

“Now, I have made one down payment for you. There are ten more. You owe me, Paddy, and if you check who the creditor is, you will know just how much!”

He turned his back on me and started walking away. He didn’t even bother to wait for an answer.

I stepped into the light, read the payment-slip. ‘Frazetti Mortauges’. 

I aimed sloppily and fired.

fan Upper exclaimed and grabbed his buttocks.

“What the fuck, Paddy?!” he howled.

“See that as a my first down payment on my debt. It barely scratched you. Shithead.”

“You shot me in the ass!”

“Well, you stabbed me in the back first.”

He stared at me. The cigar was already dying on the floor. He threw something at me, something small, and metal. It hit the floor right in front of me and bounced onwards, landing finally in a dark corner. I picked it up and studied it. It was a small copper coin, initials ‘K’ and ‘S’ on one side and the numbers ‘04’ on the other. Also several markings and symbols graced the coin. Obviously some kind of Cartel trinket.

I looked up at fan Upper. He was holding his hand to the wound.

“Meet me at Freeport Space Station next Monday.” he said through clenched teeth and started limping towards the elevator.

I started closing the door when fan Upper growled:

“Tell anyone about the ass-shot and I’ll have you killed!”

I shut the door.


End file.
